


Scars and Souvenirs

by MindfulNegligence



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Compliant, Drama, Episode Related, Gap Filler, Gen, Hate Crimes, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Romance, What-If, canon-divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-05-11 21:40:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5642932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulNegligence/pseuds/MindfulNegligence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with dancing. It's dancing and singing and laughing and kissing. It’s carefree; it’s music and love and smiles. And then it’s not...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken and Bloodied

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as something that was supposedly for a roleplay on Tumblr (as [itsmrkinney](http://itsmrkinney.tumblr.com)), but ended up being much more, so I decided to post it.
> 
> I've always wanted to write this scene, not just as a rehash of what we see in the show, but beyond that. It will follow the storyline of the show, but it will also have elements that are of my own imagination incorporated into it. It's not quite a gapfiller, though it could be considered as such if you wish it.
> 
> The title is taken from an album by Theory of a Deadman.

It starts with dancing. It's dancing and singing and laughing and kissing. It’s carefree; it’s music and love and smiles. And then it’s not—it’s evil and darkness and blood. It’s hatred and prejudice, a storm rolling in, an electric jolt to the heart.

The crack of the bat echoes throughout the garage as it makes contact, a hollow cry of those once innocent, now gnarled and bloodied by the actions of one. Brian finds himself running, faster and faster, but not nearly fast enough. Time slows, as does everything else. It's a warped version of reality as he watches Justin fall. His breath burns in his lungs, his heart hammers in his chest, even as it begins to sink lower and lower. He’s only vaguely aware of his actions, even as he swings the bat into Chris Hobbs’ knees. It makes a satisfying crack and the boy cries out, but Brian pays him no mind, even as the bat clatters to the ground.

He rushes toward Justin, falling to his knees beside the younger man’s seemingly lifeless body. _No._ He loses track of how many times that word leaves his lips. _No, no, no…_ Again and again, he says it, like a mantra. _No, no, no, no..._ Over and over. _No, no..._ And that’s when he sees the blood, a rush of crimson as it flows over the concrete. _God!_

Brian hunches over Justin’s body as he shakes him, as he pleads with him to wake up. His eyes burn with fresh tears, but he forces them back, unable to show such weakness. He can just make out the sounds around him, the sounds of the other students gasping as they stumble upon the brutal scene. He can just make out the sounds of someone making a call to 9-1-1, but he drowns it out; he hears the distant, harsh curses of Chris Hobbs as he continues to cry out in pain, but Brian drowns that out, too. He’s too focused on the boy in his arms. He waits to hear something, any sign of life, of consciousness, but hears nothing. _No!_

The chill from the cement begins to seep into his very being, deep into his bones, his soul. He shivers. It’s then that Brian hears the sirens. _Hear that, Sunshine? They’re coming to help. Just hang in there..._ Brian leans down, pressing a kiss to Justin’s lips, his stomach twisting almost painfully at the taste of blood, the lack of response from those perfect lips. He holds Justin close, cradling the younger man’s body to his chest, even as a stranger’s hands appear before him, trying to loosen his grip. Brian refuses, of course, not quite willing to let go just yet. The paramedics are talking to him now, but their words are lost to him. He hears them, but their speech is muffled, a harsh ringing in his ears.

It begins with the usual questions: _What happened? What’s his name? How old is he?_ He drowns out the noise until it becomes nothing more than a low, buzzing sound in his ear. It grows quiet after a moment before returning at full force. It grows louder and louder until it's almost deafening. It gets louder still, until suddenly, he realizes it’s his own voice: “He was hit in the head.” Then, “Justin. His... His name is Justin.” And then, “He’s eighteen.” _Christ, he’s only eighteen!_ His whole body goes numb.

It’s then that everything blurs. There’s a sudden rush of lights and voices and sirens. And then there’s nothing. It makes him dizzy—faint even, and a sudden wave of nausea washes over him. His stomach twists, and the sour taste of bile burns the back of his throat. He catches sight of the wound—of Justin’s skull cracked open. He sees the blood, now staining the perfect whiteness of the silk scarf, marring Justin’s perfect features. It pools around Justin’s head, a rush of red against the boy’s pale skin, his shock of blond hair.

There's a harshness to it that makes him wretch. He wants to vomit. _Fuck,_ he’s going to vomit! There’s a sudden tug on his arm, an all-too-fabricated, soothing voice in his ear, and Brian fights it with all his might. _What's your name?_ Who gives a shit? _Sir?_ Brian doesn't answer. They’re still trying to pry Justin from his grip, and he’s slipping. He’s slipping and slipping and he can’t stop it! _Fuck!_

Finally, Brian releases his grip, and everything falls out from under him. _I’ve lost him,_ he thinks as he watches them load Justin into the back of the ambulance. _I’ve lost him... I’ve lost him..._ Once more, there’s a voice. There's a certain optimism in its tone and he revels in it: _He’s alive._

Brian’s breath catches in his throat. _He’s alive,_ he hears them say again, just as his world is about to crumble. But even so, it does nothing to nullify the pain, the sheer fucking _agony_ of it. It all seems to fade before him; his vision blurs and his heart beats loudly in his ears. It’s only then that he finds his voice. He takes a step forward, toward the ambulance, toward Justin. His legs are stiff, but his resolve doesn’t waver. Brian’s voice is shaky—painfully so, even as he channels a certain confidence that only someone like Justin could muster. His eyes flash as he gains the attention of one of the paramedics. He squares his shoulders, standing tall as he says it: “I’m going with him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any feedback is welcome and encouraged.


	2. Hanging in Limbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is caught, trapped. It's his own personal Purgatory. He's forever suspended, hanging in limbo, and Brian wants nothing more than to simply get the fuck out.

Time seemed to be at a standstill. It’s strange, almost. Everything around him is moving, a fast blur of bodies and machines, yet here he is, stuck in his own version of Hell. He vaguely remembers the ride in the ambulance, the constant swaying, sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. That much hasn’t changed—the sickness, the nothingness. It feels as though something is lodged deep inside him, somewhere deep in the hollows of his soul that is keeping him pinned, stuck. He can’t move, can’t shake this feeling of guilt and sorrow. It plagues him, and it pains him to know it, to feel it, to know that no matter what he does, he can’t change it. Everything is caught, trapped. It’s his own, personal Purgatory. He’s forever suspended, hanging in limbo, and Brian wants nothing more than to simply get the fuck out.

Brian finds himself sitting down now, in one of those hard, plastic chairs that hospitals always seem to try to pass off as furniture. Normally he’d gripe about such things. He’d bitch and moan about how uncomfortable it was, but that couldn’t even hold a candle to what he’s feeling emotionally. The strength he’d somehow gathered to hold back the tears has faded and he feels the evidence of it as his tears slide down his cheeks. He loses track of time as it passes, ever minute slower than the next. It’s as if time has no meaning, and it just adds to the nothingness he feels. He feels hollow, empty, a shell of his former self. And, _Christ,_ does it fucking hurt!

Every now and then, he feels a reassuring hand on his shoulder, though he doesn’t quite remember who it belongs to. It squeezes his shoulder comfortingly before moving to his hair, stroking it lightly. It’s then that Brian remembers…

_Michael._

He remembers calling Michael, but only marginally. Brian figures Michael has taken the liberty of calling the others to inform them of tonight’s events (he could only imagine what he’d told them, but Brian doesn’t let himself dwell on it). The grip on his shoulder changes every now and then and it’s only a moment or two before he is able to distinguish between each person: Michael. Deb. Linds… It’ s like they have some kind of rotation! _Here, you watch him for ten minutes._ The very idea makes Brian’s head swim, makes his gut wrench. _He doesn’t look too good. Why don’t you watch him now?_ Fuckers. If they only knew…

He knows they mean well, of course, but he also knows there’s isn’t anything that can dull the pain, the guilt. He gathers strength from their touch, but not nearly enough. It does very little to quell this wretched feeling inside of him, the horror of it all. It does nothing to erase the images from his head as they repeat themselves again and again, as though they’re on some kind of sadistic slideshow. He hears them ask him questions, ones he never has a true, outspoken answer to:

 _Are you okay?_ Fuck, no.

 _What happened?_ You have to ask?

 _You want some coffee? Something to eat?_ If I did, I think I might barf.

He hears these questions again and again, to the point where he can pinpoint when they’re about to be asked again, and by whom. The mere thought of it is nauseating. Justin’s in the fucking hospital with head trauma, and everyone seems to be hovering over him. And so it goes—more guilt added to the mix. _Shit._

Justin’s blood has dried now, and he can still taste it on his lips, see it on his hands as he looks down. It’s smeared across his palms from where he’d held him. It’s lost it’s vibrancy and it makes his stomach twist, painfully so. Before he knows it, the sickness is back. Brian’s face twists as a sudden wave of nausea hits him, and it’s then that he sees a pair of hands reaching for the scarf, to take it from him. He clutches at it tightly with both hands, with nothing more than a snarl to deter them, his eyes alighting with such anger glinting in his eyes. He waits for the hands to disappear, for them to get the message, and he very nearly threatens to break them. _Fuck off!_ he wants to bellow, but he remains vigilant, knowing such an outburst would only cause alarm. It pleases him greatly when the hands (whomever’s they were) retreat. He needs a cigarette, but he puts an end to that urge, as well. Brian knows he wouldn’t be able to move anyway. His eyes are glued to the door across the hall, unwavering. His eyes burn with the intensity of their stare, but he doesn’t mind.

And so the standstill continues. It goes on and on and doesn’t stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any feedback is welcome and encouraged.


	3. A Little Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever so slowly, things start to piece themselves together. The weightlessness seems to lift and he tries desperately to move, to speak as things slowly begin to piece themselves together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank my roleplay partner, [xxyouaremysunshinex](http://xxyouaremysunshinex.tumblr.com) for the inspiration for Justin in this chapter and on our roleplay thread. Though I am taking liberties with this story, branching off from what our thread has become, and writing it by myself, I would like to thank her for her wonderful writing and for her inspiration. So, thank you.

Brian isn’t sure exactly when the change comes. He isn't sure if it's been hours, days, weeks... He knows time has passed, but Brian has no comprehension of time. It's like the standstill is back and fucking hates it. He hates every goddamn minute of it. It's like he's stuck in one place while everything whirs past him with blinding speed. He remembers going home to change his clothes, grab a smoke, but he can’t quite pinpoint when it was—the consumption of alcohol has proved to be the perfect antidote. That, and he's almost sure that popping almost every letter of the alphabet hasn't helped, either, but fuck, does he know that it helps drown out the noise, the feeling of loss.

He keeps the scarf close, hidden beneath the collar of his shirt. He keeps it close as a reminder, even as a warm mouth surrounds him, services him in the backroom of Babylon. He finds himself in this position even more, as of recent—lying back, high on whatever (he's taken so much nowadays, he forgets), a faceless trick down on his knees, sucking his cock. It’s his own form of pain management—the pills, the booze, the meaningless sex—but it is never enough. It’s not _Justin._  And Brian drowns himself in it every night, it seems, and he's been drowning himself every night since Justin came out of his coma.

_He’s showing positive signs,_ he remembers, one of the many voices he’s heard over the past two weeks, from one of many of Justin’s doctors. _I’m hopeful._ Yeah, because ‘hope’ can fix everything. He doesn't let himself hope, doesn't let himself think that it'll get better. It's almost as if history is repeating itself, and Brian isn't sure if he can handle it. Even still, he finds himself looking through the glass every night, wishing that it _would_ get better, that he _could_ handle it. It’s long after the alcohol and drugs have worn off, after the warm mouth has long since disappeared from around him, and the numbness has returned. He hates it, but Brian knows there's nothing that he can do. He knows that there's no fixing this, no matter what he does.

Justin feels as though he is suspended in the vast, open reaches of space. He hears nothing, feels nothing. It's darkness, one moment after another, stretched out, seemingly endless. It feels like he's floating, coming in and out of consciousness. He has no memory, no recollection of what happened, and the questions plague him: _What happened? What was he doing before this? Why is he here?_ He tries to answer these questions—again and again, he tries. But he comes up empty. He can't answer any of it.

Ever so slowly, things start to piece themselves together. The weightlessness seems to lift and Justin tries desperately to move, to speak as things slowly begin to fall into place. It's dark still, but he manages, and he can hear muffled sounds. It's an echo, like the ticking of a clock in the far reaches of his brain. It's then that Justin registers the pain in his head. His thoughts are incoherent and none of it makes any sense. It's incredibly frustrating, and Justin fights against it. Again and again, he struggles. Before he's even able to register it, the echoes get louder and louder, and suddenly, Justin remembers.

His prom. Brian. _You know, that's just what I need, to be at a dance full of fucking eighteen-year-olds..._

Brian rejected him. _Fuck._

"Br— Brian..."

It's all the same for Brian: the drinking, the drugs, the sex. He stands back as he watches his young lover, long after everyone has gone, long after the constant ringing in his ears has disappeared, when there's nothing except the light shuffling of nurses as they bustle through the empty halls. The lights in Justin’s room are dark, but he can still see him, lying on the bed, his blond hair having an almost ethereal glow as it falls over the pillow. It's all the same, only, there’s something that stands out, nothing like the tossing and turning that he’d seen before, when Justin'd been undoubtedly been trapped in some kind of horrific nightmare. No, this is different. Brian watches, still, watches as Justin’s lips form what could only be his name. His name. _Fuck._ Brian. It's something so simple, a simple word formed on his young lover’s lips, but it somehow makes Brian’s heart beat faster, hammering in his chest.

His stomach sinks, and just like that, the fear is back. He fears Justin waking up, fears that somehow, the younger man will see him standing there. He fears that Justin will blame him, blame Brian for the position that he’s in, much like Brian blames himself. And he does. _God,_ does he blame himself—because it’s his fault! Justin is there, lying in a goddamn hospital bed, recovering from a traumatic head injury, and it’s all Brian’s fault.

_Christ,_ it’s all his fault.

Justin's eyes flutter momentarily as he tries again, as he tries desperately to say the name he so dearly wishes to speak. He can see Brian's face behind his closed eyelids, his perfectly handsome face, a gleam in his hazel eyes, and Justin wants to reach out, to pull him close, but he can't. He tries to call out to him, but he can't hear his own voice. He feels his lips move, but he can't fucking _say_ it! Brian's heart wrenches at the sight, the sight of Justin struggling, and he wants nothing more than to take a step forward, to let his presence be known. Instead, he finds himself taking a step back. He waits another long moment before looking through the glass once more, watching as Justin seemingly begins to wake up.

"Brian..."

He hears it that time, hears Justin's voice as it calls out to him. Though it's weak, quiet, muddled by the remnants of sleep (not to mention the thickness of the glass...), Brian can still hear the plea behind it. He's about to take another step back, to turn away and leave like he has so many nights before, to shut himself out once again. But he can't. He finds himself stuck, glued to the spot, transfixed as his eyes take in the sight of Justin's form, one that he'd actually found himself longing for in the recent days. He's longed for Justin's presence, for his touch, and he now finds himself so close, but he can't reach him. He needs Justin's bravery, his loyalty, his inability to take any bullshit from anyone. It's _Justin_  that Brian needs so dearly right now, and though he's just a hospital door away, to Brian, it feels as though the distance is far greater.

_Christ, Kinney, get a grip!_ he scolds himself. He finds himself doing this often, ever since the bashing—berating himself over what once was such a happy, romantic time. He wants nothing more than to go back, to turn back time. If only there was a way... Still, he watches as Justin begins to stir, growing more intrigued by the second. This is nothing like the nightmares he's grown accustomed to seeing the younger man endure, and Brian knows this for a fact. No, this is something different. Somewhere, deep down, Brian is aware that there is a very high chance that he'll be seen, that he'll get caught looking in, but he can't seem to give a shit. Not anymore.  _Come on... Wake up..._

And that's when Justin's eyes open. That's when it all changes.

Brian's heart stops as an electric jolt floods through him. His heart thuds in his chest and his blood races, but he doesn't seem to mind. Every bit of him is telling him to run, to turn and leave, but still, he finds himself glued to the spot, unable to move an inch. He watches as Justin seems to take in his surroundings—the semi-darkness of his room, the monitors that surround him, the sterile whiteness that seems to cover anything and everything. Time, itself, seem to still and Brian finds himself holding his breath. It's something he's never seen before, something that he'd already been long gone, too far away to see: Justin. Awake. Alive.

Brian's heard the stories, of course. There was no way to avoid them when he sits down for breakfast at the diner. _Justin woke up yesterday... He's asking for you... Why haven't you gone to see him?_ He normally stays quiet, saying nothing. Other times, he tells them to fuck off, to mind their own goddamn business before he takes his coffee to-go and gets the hell out of dodge. But as he stands here, now, watching as the young man wakes up, watches as Justin shifts his position on the hospital bed, a look of discomfort marring his perfect features, Brian wonders why he hasn't done this sooner. Brian watches closely as Justin turns his head to the side, blinks the sleep from his eyes. He freezes when their eyes meet.

_Shit._

He's not sure how long they stare at each other, and Brian is almost certain of Justin's confusion. He probably thinks he's dreaming, Brian figures, and he's right. Justin stares at Brian with this look in his eyes, this innocent, far-away look that tugs at Brian in ways he didn't even know were possible, and he finds himself pulling his lips between his teeth to hide his smile. He breaks eye contact and takes a slow, tentative step back, away from the glass, but he doesn't go far. Brian soon finds himself reaching for the door handle of Justin's room and turning it, opening the door.

He doesn't know what he's going to do, what he's going to say once he's in the room, but Brian doesn't find it in himself to care. He feels Justin's eyes on him as he enters the room, as he closes the door behind him. Brian stands still for a long while, unable to get his voice. It's only when a wide smile breaks out over Justin's face that Brian finally finds the right words.

"Hey, Sunshine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any feedback is welcome and encouraged. Chapters should be getting a little longer from here on out.


	4. Reaching Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And just like that, Brian remembers. He squeezes his eyes shut and the horrendous scene plays out behind his closed lids. He flinches and suddenly, it's like a never-ending darkness washes over him. He can see Justin standing there, smiling, his entire face lit up like the sun; he can see Chris Hobbs walking toward him, bat clutched tightly in his fist; he hears himself call out, _Justin!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some will probably recognize some quotes in this chapter, taken directly from the episode. This is because that specific conversation is very important to the story as a whole, and will further the plot in the coming chapters.

Justin is almost sure he's dreaming when he sees Brian on the other side of the room, even more so when he hears him speak. With his nightmare long forgotten, Justin blinks the sleep from his eyes, trying to focus on the man standing on the other side of the room. He remains silent, almost afraid to move, as though Brian might disappear at any moment, like he'll evaporate back into the deepest and darkest depths of his subconscious. He can't risk losing him, not now, even if he is just a figment of his imagination. Justin simply stares, unmoving, uncharacteristically quiet.

This dream-Brian, Justin decides, looks like complete and utter shit. He doesn't look like he normally would—designer clothes, freshly showered and shaven, with just enough ruggedness to give himself that mysterious, bad-boy look that Justin (and half of Pittsburgh, at that) find to be sexy as hell. No, _this_ Brian—this despondent, mediocre interpretation of what was and _should_ be, one that only his sleep-addled, drug-infused brain could conjure up—was completely wrong; it didn't fit, didn't match all of the other puzzle pieces. No, this Brian was from a different set entirely.

Justin watches him, taking in all of what he's seeing. Brian is wearing a dark leather jacket (one of Justin's favorites—Hugo Boss, or so Brian has told him, the label queen that he is), and from what Justin can tell, he's wearing a black tank underneath, showing just enough of his chest to make Justin's mouth water. He's wearing dark, slightly faded jeans, perfectly tailored to his body and Justin can just make out the shells of his bracelet peeking out from under the sleeve of his jacket. It's an ensemble that Brian'd normally wear out to Woody's, or possibly even Babylon, but something just doesn't seem right about it, and it only takes a second for Justin to decide what it is. He looks tired as hell, like he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep in days, like someone had beaten the shit out of him and left him in some dark, dank alley to rot. His hair sticks up in odd places and his face looks worn. It's a picture that Justin has never seen before and it doesn't take him long to decide he doesn't like it. He never wants to see it again, but he can't seem to tear his eyes away. Brian stands tall, but his shoulders are slumped, and even though Brian maintains his usual stoic demeanor, Justin can sense something is off. Still, even after all that, his smile never fades.

"Brian?" he says, his surprise evident in his voice.

Brian takes a step forward into the room. "Hey," he says. It's something so straightforward, a simple salutation, but it's just enough to make Justin's heart beat a little faster.

"Hey," is Justin's only reply. His voice is so quiet but his smile grows impossibly wider, lighting up his entire face. "You're here."

Brian nods. "Yeah, I'm here."

"They told me you wouldn't come." There's an undeniable sadness in Justin's voice that makes Brian's heart sink, a fresh wave of guilt washing over him.

"I know."

Justin's smile fades. He reaches out slowly, a pleading look in his eyes as he beckons him. "Come over here."

Brian considers telling him no. He also considers going to him, reaching out to him, holding him close, and everything that doing so would imply. He longs to go to him, to sit with him, to touch him, something that he's longed to do for what feels like an eternity. He wants to say yes, he really does, so it's a definite surprise to them both when he refuses.

Brian shakes his head slowly, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. "I should probably head back. It's late and you need your rest."

"I've rested enough," Justin protests, and he's right—two weeks lying in a hospital bed had been _more_ than enough. Hell, it's enough to drive a kid stir crazy. Justin figures he's had enough sleep to last him for quite some time. He sits up in bed, a frown etched into his otherwise beautiful features as he looks at the man across the room, pleading with his eyes. "Please?"

Brian sighs heavily and he takes those last few steps toward Justin's hospital bed. He leans close, brushing his lips over Justin's forehead gently. He lingers, but not nearly as long as he really wants to, and he pulls back, breathing out a sigh.

"I'll come back," he promises. He feels Justin's hand on his arm and it grounds him; it gives him strength. "I'll come back," he says again, conviction in his voice. It's only when he takes a step back that he sees it. It's kind of hard to miss; the young man's time in the hospital has done little to help the angry pink scar just at the edge of Justin's hairline. Upon further inspection, Brian can just make out the marks from the stitches. His stomach turns.

"Brian?" Justin asks, worry etched into his face.

Brian takes a step back, away from Justin, shaking his head. He wants to turn away, to say something, but he can't seem to tear his eyes away from the scar. He blinks once, twice, three times, but the image is still burned into his brain.

"What is it?" Justin tries again. It's then that he notices where Brian is looking. "Oh, this?" he asks, his hand reaching up to touch it, to run his fingers lightly over the mark. "They said Chris Hobbs hit me in the head with a baseball bat. I guess I needed stitches; the doctor said I lost a lot of blo—Brian? What's wrong?"

And just like that, Brian remembers. He squeezes his eyes shut and the horrendous scene plays out behind his closed lids. He flinches and suddenly, it's like a never-ending darkness washes over him. He can see Justin standing there, smiling, his entire face lit up like the sun; he can see Chris Hobbs walking toward him, bat clutched tightly in his fist; he hears himself call out, _Justin!_

Brian takes another step back and he's only somewhat aware of the sound of Justin calling out to him, asking if he's alright. He can taste the bile as it rises in his throat, but somehow, he still manages to choke out, "I'll come back."

"Bri—"

He can almost feel his heart breaking at the look on Justin's face, but he's suddenly so overwhelmed with sickness that he soon finds himself turning on his heel and leaving the room, all but slamming the door shut behind him.

Brian flees quickly, his skin suddenly feeling ice cold. Despite the chill, he feels almost feverish, and his skin prickles. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end and he shudders as the memories play again and again, a violent tremble wracking his entire body.

He rushes into the nearest restroom and locks himself in the stall, and heaves over the toilet. His entire body lurches as he empties the contents of his stomach until there's nothing more than bile rising in his throat, a sour taste that lingers on his tongue. Brian hunches over the toilet and slumps to his knees, the chill from the tile seeping into his very being. It's only moments before he hears the door open and a concerned voice calling out to him.

"Hey, man, are you alright in there?"

"Go away!" he sputters as another wave of nausea hits him, making him wretch.

"You need me to get somebody?" the insistent fucker asks. "Is your wife here with you?"

Brian snorts at the absolute predictability of the guy's question, and he's just about to tell him where to shove it when he chokes on his words, and he wretches once again. "Fuck off!" he groans, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"You don't sound good, man. You want me to get a doctor?"

"I said, _fuck off!_ " Brian nearly growls. It's only when he hears the door open and close that he slumps against the toilet once again, running his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. _Fuck!_

* * *

Despite his promise, Brian does not return to the hospital. He begins to drown himself once more, only this time, his methods have become more destructive. He's drunk almost every night, nearly passing out on more than one occasion. He still finds solace at Babylon, in the faceless tricks and drunks and vast amounts of alcohol at his disposal, but his guilt has never been stronger.

He knows that he shouldn't have left the way he did. He knows that he most likely broke Justin's heart by leaving in such a rush, but he can't let himself dwell on it. In truth, he wants nothing more than to go back, to go back there and give everyone a big, fat fuck-you. But he doesn't. He becomes the elusive Brian Kinney once again, building up his walls, only to have them come crashing down around him every time someone mentions hide or hair of Justin Taylor.

And Brian is right; Justin is heartbroken. He grows tired of telling everyone that Brian did, in fact, show up, but having no one to believe him. Eventually, he begins to wonder if it had been a dream, a sick, twisted sort of dream—one that took every single one of his hopes and dreams and crushed them right before his eyes, all while sadistically laughing in the background. Still, he finds himself pining for Brian, for his touch, his voice, his smell, but every time he asks, all everyone seems to say is, _Sorry, Justin._

 _Sorry._ Justin has begun to hate that word. He's heard it so many damn times, in so many different variations, from so many different people that he's grown tired of hearing it. Even just thinking about it makes him sick. _Sorry you got bashed in the head..._ He's heard it so many times. Over and over. _Sorry you can't remember anything..._ It makes his blood boil. _Sorry about Brian..._ He wants to lash out. _Sorry, sorry, sorry..._ He wants to scream.

To make matters worse, the therapy has begun. It's excruciating; it's exhausting; and Justin hates every minute of it. He feels eyes on him as he performs the simplest of tasks. He starts out simple—or at least, it's 'simple' by doctors' definitions—but he can't help but think of Brian the entire time. He can sense that everyone knows what's up, but he finds himself asking nonetheless.

"Is he here?" Justin asks one morning as he makes his way to therapy, his voice full of hope.

Unsurprisingly, his mother shakes her head. "No, sweetheart. He's not."

Justin frowns, and he can just _feel_ her eyes on him, and the sympathy he sees in their depths tugs at him in ways that didn't even think possible. His stomach sinks and he sighs, despite the comforting hand that he feels on his shoulder. Justin knows it's just his mother's way of making him feel better, to ground him, but it's not her comfort that he needs the most, not in the slightest. It's not her touch that he craves.

Still, Justin sits down at the dreadful fucking table, nurses all around. He runs his hand through his hair and blows out a puff of air. It's repetition, repetition, repetition. It's that in particular that drives Justin crazy. It's disconcerting in the worst of ways. He hates it almost as much as the trembling in his hand, the complete lack of control of anything and everything.

He loses his temper quickly, like the simple flip of a switch, the drop of a hat, and he has to wonder, who the fuck wouldn't had they been in his situation? Justin grows tired of the repetition of it all, the nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach and the pressure that he's forced to put upon himself. It's a sickening sense of déjà vu, a kind of vertigo that turns his stomach, makes him dizzy, leaves him reeling. Some days, it's like he's gotten hit all over again. And it just doesn't fucking stop!

It goes on just the same, like he's not making any progress at all. He still can't grasp a fucking tennis ball or put some brightly colored paperclips back in their plastic canister. They tell him again and again, _You can do it. Try again._ He does, but it's the same damn thing. Over and over again, the same monotonous tasks. Repetition, repetition, repetition. And still no sign of Brian.

* * *

"You're still here," Brian says, making his way down the steps, a towel wrapped around his waist. "We still going to Woody's?"

"Yeah," Michael says simply. "But, I'm going to see Justin. Ma says he's going home today; her and Uncle Vic are going over there later. You should come with me."

Brian sighs as he runs his fingers through his damp hair, making it stand up in all different directions. "I told you, making other people happy—"

"—can be hazardous to my health, yeah, I know." Michael rolls his eyes. His face softens, the image of Brian with the bloodied scarf around his neck still fresh in his mind. "Look, I can tell you're worried about him. I know you want to see him—"

"What I _want_ ," Brian cuts him off, turning toward the bedroom to get dressed, "is to go to Woody's. Now are you coming with me, or not?"

Michael knows it's best not to argue. _What Brian Kinney wants, Brian Kinney gets..._

* * *

With every passing moment, Justin regrets his decision to leave. The sudden urge to see Brian is overwhelming, devastatingly so, and the cigarette does nothing to quell the fear wracking his body. He presses on, even as bodies and lights flash by him, blurred only by the fogginess in his brain as he chants, _Brian. Brian. I have to find Brian..._

He knows he can't go to Babylon. No, that'll be too much for him right now, too many bodies, too many distractions, and Justin fucking knows it. And that only leaves him one other option:

_Woody's._

Justin can just _feel_  the eyes on him as he makes his way down the street. He tosses his cigarette to the ground and shoves his hands in his pockets, his shoulders tense as he makes his way down Liberty Avenue. He has to stop more than once to catch his breath, to gather himself before he begins again. He wants to scream, but on the flip side, he also feels like he's going to pass out, but nevertheless, he forces himself up the steps and through the door.

Unsurprisingly, as soon as he enters, everyone seems to turn toward him. It's then that he curls in on himself, retreating to the far corner of the bar, pressing his face into the brick. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears Michael's voice.

Justin looks up slowly, but it's not Michael that he looks at. His eyes are glued to the man across the room, staring, just like Brian is staring at him. The corner of his mouth turns up, if only slightly, but it quickly disappears when he sees the shocked look on Brian's face.

"Are you just gonna fucking stand there?" Michael snaps, and Brian turns away from him, blinking slowly. There's a sudden awkwardness in the bar and it's a long moment before Michael finally takes action. "Come on, Justin," he says. "I'll drive you home."

Brian instantly sobers. "No," he cuts in, finally stepping up. "He's coming with me." _I've said this before..._ he thinks.  _When did I say this before?_

Michael seems to know it, too, because he looks from Brian to Justin and back, his face softening. "Fine," he relents, crossing his arms over his chest, knowing damn well Brian wasn't going to budge. "But I'm driving."

"What?" Brian scoffs. "The fuck you are!"

"You're too fucked up to drive," Michael argues, holding his hand out, offering no room for debate. "Now give me you're goddamn keys."

Brian glares at his friend for a long moment before he finally gives up, fishing his keys out of his pocket, and handing them over. Justin watches the two of them, remaining silent, not knowing what to say or do. He watches Michael walk out of the bar, presumably to go get Brian's jeep, but he doesn't move, nor does Brian.

They stare at each other for a long time, neither one wanting to make the first move. Finally Justin takes a step forward, turning to leave, and Brian follows close behind, his eyes on the ground as he follows Justin. Michael is waiting for them by the curb when they get out of the bar and when Brian looks up, he sees Justin already climbing into the back seat. He follows soon after, climbing up into the passenger seat, all while feeling Michael's eyes on him. He wants to snap at him, to just tell him to fucking drive, but he stays quiet.

Thankfully, the ride back to the loft is short, but still long enough that by the time that the jeep pulls up to the curb, Brian's head is pounding. He climbs out of the jeep slowly, genuinely surprised when he's able to catch the keys as Michael tosses them to him.

"You wanna keep the jeep?" Brian offers, but Michael waves him off.

"Nah," he says simply. "I'll call Ted, or I'll just take the bus." Michael looks up at Justin, who's already walked up the steps and standing by the front door to the building, arms wrapped tightly around himself. Michael turns his gaze back to Brian. "He needs you. Just talk to him. It might help both of you." And, almost as though he's channeling his mother, he adds, "Don't fuck this up."

Brian nods firmly before turning to walk up the steps, reaching out to unlock the front door. He holds it open for Justin before stepping through, himself, and making his way toward the elevator. The ride up is quiet, awkward even, and Brian wants nothing more than to reach out to Justin, to comfort him, but he has no fucking idea how.

The awkwardness continues, even more so when they enter the loft. Brian sets his keys on the counter and waits for Justin to say something, but that moment never comes. He turns to look at the younger man, watches as he walks to one of the bar stools, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie.

"Want a drink?" Brian offers, breaking the silence. He can't seem to tear his eyes from Justin's face. Justin nods, but says nothing. "Water?" Brian guesses. His answer is another nod. Brian turns and grabs a glass before he heads to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of Evian. He's vaguely aware of Justin talking behind him, some shit about if Hobbs had hit him a different way, or at a different angle, and doctors drilling through his skull... He knows the little twat is just trying to make conversation, but the mere idea of it—hell, the memory of it all makes Brian sick. He swallows hard and empties about half the bottle into the glass, leaving it on the counter just in case. He rounds the counter slowly and offers the glass to Justin.

To his relief, Justin takes the glass easily, but with his left hand, and Brian takes note of how he cradles his right to his chest. Brian knows about the injury, of course—the others have told him numerous times after having gone to visit Justin while in therapy. He's heard about it enough times to know that there's no way he could even possibly forget. Justin must see where he's looking, however, because suddenly, he frowns.

"It acts up sometimes," Justin explains quietly, his voice full of hurt. "The doctors say I may never draw again." And Brian knows that, too. He nearly lost it—lost _everything_ when he found out...

It's Brian's turn to babble, to ramble on with some stoner-esque propaganda about doctors charging you whatever the fuck they want for a piss-poor prognosis. He stares at Justin's face for a long moment before he looks away, regretting his words.

"Why'd you never come back?" Justin says suddenly, and it nearly makes Brian's heart leap into his throat. When he doesn't answer, Justin continues, his voice light as he tries to joke, "They all said I was crazy, that you were never there to begin with, that I must have been dreaming..." He frowns and takes a sip of water, as if giving himself time to collect his thoughts. "You—" he falters, looking at Brian with pleading eyes. "You _were_ there, weren't you?"

Brian sighs, biting his lip. "Yeah," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was there."

Justin smiles, and the brightness of it lights up the entire room. "I knew it," he says, his eyes boring into Brian's. It's then that he remembers. "Why'd you leave?"

"I told you," Brian laments, "you needed your rest."

"But you left in such a hurry."

Brian shrugs and rounds the counter, reaching for the bottle of Beam. "I had places to be."

"And where was that?" Justin asks, his voice flat, disappointed. "Woody's, Babylon? Or how about the Baths?" Brian's head snapped to the side, his eyes finding Justin's in an instant. Justin simply shrugs. "I'm onto you, remember?" he says, his face falling a moment later. "I just wish you would've come back."

A silence passes between them and neither knows exactly how much time has passed before one them finally speaks again. Brian stares at Justin, his face devoid of all expression as Justin's voice fills the loft.

"I still don't remember anything," the young man admits slowly, and it's then that it's made clear to Brian that Justin has tried many times to make the memories resurface, and he can only guess how many. "The last thing I do remember is you telling me that you _wouldn't_ come to my prom. But they said that you showed up after all, and that we danced together, and that it was amazing." Justin's smile tugs at Brian in ways he didn't even know were possible. "Daphne said that we were amazing."

Brian looks at Justin with a blank stare, like the blade of a knife had suddenly been shoved into his chest. He breathes deeply before lifting his head as he admits, "We were alright."

Justin thumps his fist against the counter lightly. "Shit," he says, his eyes glued to the glass of water, his face falling ever so slightly. "I wish I could remember that."

 _I wish you could remember, too,_ Brian wants to say, but he stays quiet as he rounds the counter again, rubbing tiredly at the back of his neck. It's then that the 'knife' in his chest twists, causing pain to shoot through his body as Justin speaks up once again.

"And then I walked down with you, back out to your jeep, and that's when Chris Hobbs came out with a baseball bat and—"

"I thought you said you couldn't remember anything?" Brian snaps, his brows knitting together as he turns to look Justin in the eye.

"I can't," Justin says matter-of-factly. "This is just stuff that other people have told me." Brian's frown deepens, but Justin presses on. "It's like a story that happened to somebody else."

Pursing his lips, Brian abandons the bottle cap on the counter and turns. "Yeah, well, I can remember; I can remember everything." He walks out into the living room, running a hand over his face as the memories come rushing back. "I saw him," he says, his voice pained. He swallows hard, forcing the words out. "He was coming after you with the bat, but he was moving too fast and you were too far away." He can feel Justin's eyes on him. "And I ran, but there was no time to stop him. And then he swung... and it was too late." Brian closes his eyes tightly, the crack of the bat echoing in the far reaches of his mind. He can hear a shuffling behind him, but he doesn't turn to look. He stares straight ahead, his face blank, unreadable. "There was nothing I could do," he admits harshly, as though he's berating himself all over again. "And then you just laid there on the cold cement..."

"It wasn't your fault," Justin says suddenly, coming up behind him, the sound of his voice nearly making Brian jump out of his skin.

And Brian wants to believe him; he does, but he can't. There's this part of him, deep down, that won't let him. It's the same part of him that forces his eyes away when Justin goes to him, the same part that has him averting his gaze as Justin slowly reaches out to touch his shoulder. It's only when Justin lightly shakes him that Brian makes eye contact.

He says it again: _It wasn't your fault,_ and the words sink into Brian, into his very soul. He looks into Justin's eyes, seeing the sincerity in their depths, but doesn't say anything. He stands still, even as Justin wraps him in a hug. Brian returns it slowly, wrapping an arm over his shoulders, holding him close, reveling in his embrace, his touch.

They both lose track of how much time has passed as they stand there wrapped in each other's arms. It's Brian that finally steps away. "I should probably take you home," he says, his voice broken, quiet.  
Justin nods his head slowly, even though he'd much rather stay right where he is. "Okay."

"Come on," Brian says, turning away. "I'll drive you."

* * *

The ride back is silent. Brian turns the radio off the moment the two of them climb into the jeep, and the only sound either of them can hear is the roar of the engine. Brian can feel Justin's eyes on him as he drives, but he doesn't say anything. He still takes comfort in Justin's closeness, but he knows it's going to end soon.

He pulls up to the curb outside the building, putting the jeep into park. He doesn't cut the engine, though, figuring Justin will just climb out and he'll be free to speed away before he does anything stupid. What surprises Brian, though, is the fact that Justin doesn't make a move to exit the car at all. He sits there, staring at him, almost to the point where it makes Brian uncomfortable. He's about to say something, some sort of farewell when he finally hears Justin's voice.

"Thanks."

"For what?" Brian asks.

Justin shrugs lightly. "The ride, saving me..."

Brian shakes his head. "I didn't save you," he says, staring ahead.

"I meant tonight," Justin replies, turning his head to look at Brian, a soft smile on his face. Brian looks at him briefly, then looks down, his jaw tight as he fights back the emotions flowing through him. "So, will I see you again?" Justin asks hopefully.

"Yeah, you'll see me," Brian says, looking at him.

"Well, don't wait too long," Justin jokes. "At this rate, who knows how long I'll be around." His face lights up with a smile, and Brian makes sure to archive it, but his face falls when he thinks about the certainty behind Justin's words.

Brian stares after him as the young man climbs out of the jeep, even as Jennifer Taylor opens the front door, calling out to Justin. He looks away as mother and son exchange words, and he can feel Jennifer's gaze on him as she closes the door. Brian closes his eyes, fighting the urge to step out of the jeep and walk up to the front door. He presses his lips into a thin line, holding his breath as his own inner turmoil takes over.

It isn't long before he makes his decision, however, and Brian soon finds himself cutting the engine and opening the driver's side door. He makes his way up the steps slowly, blindly, as though he's not even aware of his actions. He inhales deeply as he steps up to the door, already hearing voices on the other side. Before he even has the chance to change his mind, Brian raises his fist to the front door, and knocks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any feedback is welcome and encouraged.


	5. One Step Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s nothing like what he’s seen before, all the times he visited him, when Justin was constantly bombarded with hellish visions, when he seemed to be plagued by nightmares practically every time Brian saw him in the hospital. No, it’s like he’s an entirely different person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like in Chapter 4, this one will have some elements that will be recognizable from the actual show, but it will be with little twists to make them original to the story. Hope you enjoy!

“I left you a note," Justin says once again. His arms cross over his chest defensively as he stares daggers at his mother. How many damn times did he have to say it?

“Believe me, I saw," Jennifer replies, her worry still clear in her voice. She reaches over and snatches the piece of paper off the counter, already dog-eared and worn from the many times she'd looked at it. " _Mom,_ " she reads aloud, " _I'm going out for a while. Be back soon. Love, Justin._ " She shakes her head. "You really think that was going to be enough? I didn't know where you went, or if you were okay! I was worried sick!"

Justin shrugs his shoulders, completely nonchalant. "You didn't have anything to worry about. I was fine."

“Justin," Jennifer tries to reason, "I just got you back. You still need your rest. What would I have done if something happened to you?"

Of course. _What would_ I _have done? Unbelievable._ Justin rolls his eyes. "It's not like I was out walking around, Mom," he argues. "I was with Brian."

Jennifer's lips press into a thin line. "I know that, but sweetheart—"

“No!" Justin says quickly, effectively stopping his mother in her tracks. He takes a step back, away from his mother, shaking his head. "You _know_ how badly I wanted to see him! You didn't believe me when I said I saw him at the hospital, that he came to see me. He was _there_ , Mom! He was _there!_ He came into my room. He kissed me..."

“Justin," Jennifer sighs. "I know, honey, but—" She's cut off by the sound of someone knocking. Both of them fall silent, and they both turn their attention to the front door. They both know who has come knocking, but neither of them make a move to answer.

Jennifer is the first one to make a move, walking over to the front door and pulling it open. It doesn't surprise her in the slightest when she sees Brian Kinney standing on the other side, hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped forward as he studies the pavement beneath his feet. It also doesn't surprise her when she turns around and watches as a blindingly bright smile spreads across her son's face.

“Brian..." Justin says, his smile growing impossibly brighter, threatening to break his face in two.

Jennifer stands back, silent, as Justin moves forward and slowly wraps his arms around the older man. It's undeniable, even as Brian moves to return Justin's embrace and his eyes close slowly, taking in the closeness of the young man. And Jennifer looks on, unable to look away, her face softening as he watches the two of them hold each other, gather strength from one another. Brian is the first to pull away, squaring his shoulders, his face returning to the emotionless mask he usually wears. He's already shown too much, and Jennifer can practically _see_ the change in his demeanor as he builds his walls back up once again.

“I thought you left?" Justin says, breaking the silence. He steps to the side, allowing Brian to pass over the threshold. He stays close to the man, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him, to wrap him up in another hug and never let go.

Brian takes Justin's invitation and steps inside, but doesn't move more than a step or two from the threshold. He doesn't move, nor does he answer Justin's question. He can feel Jennifer's eyes on him still, their gaze burning a hole straight through him, through to his very soul and it makes the situation all the more awkward. He shoves his hands back in his pockets, pulling his lips between his teeth, and an eerie silence fills the room.

He hadn't known what to expect, of course, when he'd made the split decision to come knocking. A part of him wishes that he'd just driven home, without so much as another word. Still, there was something undeniable inside him, something that was pulling at him, tugging at him in ways he didn't even know were possible. He needed to see Justin, to touch him, and now that he had, he didn't have the slightest fucking clue of what to do.

Justin's smile is still bright, and the mere sight of it nearly blinds Brian. It shines a light through his otherwise dark and dreary world. it's a life raft, and he clings to it tightly, letting it carry him, support him, but it's only when Jennifer Taylor's voice cuts through the fog that his entire life falls out from under him, and the darkness swallows him whole.

“I think you should go rest now," she says, her voice all-too-motherly, all-too-sweet.

“I'm not tired," Justin argues, taking a step closer to the man beside him.

“I'd like to speak to Brian," she says. She fixes Justin with a look, one that he knows quite well. It's one that tells him, plain and simple: _Mom means business._

“Okay," he says, crossing his arms over his chest expectantly. "So, talk."

“Alone," Jennifer clarifies.

“No," Justin argues once more, standing firm, his arms dropping down to his sides. He moves to stand in front of the older man, as if to protect him, to shield him from his mother's wrath.

Jennifer sighs heavily. "Justin, please. Your sister is upstairs—"

“I know where she is," Justin says, his brows knitting together as a deep frown sets into his face. "But what does she have to do with anything?"

“I just want to—"

“No!"

“Justin," comes Brian's voice, low and distinguished. When Justin finally looks at him, his face full of sadness, Brian just simply nods his head. It's a simple nod of the head, and he only does it once—one stiff nod, but it seems to get his point across perfectly.

With a heavy sigh, Justin steps away from Brian, albeit reluctantly. Just as he starts for the stairs, Justin turns to look at the older man longingly. He wants to go to him, to hold him, to feel his closeness, but he forces himself to turn back, to head up the stairs, and to his room.

Jennifer's eyes follow as her son climbs the stairs, watching after him until she hears the sound of his door closing. With Justin finally out of sight, and out of earshot, Jennifer turns to look at the man standing on the other side of the foyer.

Looking at him closely, Jennifer comes to a difficult realization. This man standing across from her is nothing like the Brian Kinney she'd met before—the handsome, well-dressed, over-confident man she'd met in the office at Ryder Advertising, Inc. She remembers barging into the man's office, guns blazing, Justin's duffle clutched in her hand. She remembers the bewildered look on his face, the constant string of sarcastic remarks flowing from his lips. She remembers looking at him, envisioning him with her son—him, wrapped around Justin, holding him, kissing him, fucking him... That, alone, was enough to put her teeth on edge, to cause a heavy weight in the pit of her stomach, make bile rise in her throat, and her skin to prickle in the most uncomfortable way. In the end, however, it hadn't just been that that had spooked her, made her stand up and play mother bear. In time, she'd come to know it for what it was. No, it hadn't been all of those things; it had been something else, entirely.

It was the man's stubborn attitude, the narcissism in his tone that she couldn't quite seem to shake. It was his arrogance, his outright cynicism, and his callousness. Still, it was almost intriguing—the way this man carried himself, the absolute _sureness_ of himself, of who he was. It was to the point where Jennifer's nearly found herself envious of the man. It'd been then that she'd understood her son's fascination because she, too, had been enamored by the allure and charms of Brian Kinney.

Of course, that'd been nothing like it is now. Brian is no longer that over-confident, cocky man Jennifer had seen before. He's almost unrecognizable compared to the man she'd met before. His eyes are tired, his clothes look rumpled, like he's worn them for a couple days now. It damn near breaks Jennifer's heart to see him in such a state, but she knows that she can't let that stop her from saying what needs to be said.

She stands there, arms crossed over her chest, her lips pressed into a thin line, and Brian can just imagine where this conversation is going to go. He feels so small, so microscopically insignificant under Jennifer Taylor's scrutiny, but he soon deduces that it can get much, _much_ worse. Hell, it's gotten worse even before Jennifer decides to open her mouth.

“I need you to leave." It's so simple, those five words, and they're spoken so easily, so nonchalantly that it nearly knocks Brian back on his ass.

“Excuse me?" he says, taking a step forward, his brows lifting with the unspoken question: _What the fuck are you talking about?_

“I need you to leave," Jennifer says again, a stony expression on her face.

Brian shakes his head. "No, no, I heard what you said; I'm not fucking deaf," he snaps, his brows knitting together.

Jennifer inhales sharply, no doubt a sign of her WASP-y values going up in flames at Brian's outburst. "I knew as soon as Justin told me he saw you at the hospital..."

“You knew what?"

Jennifer sighs, deciding to back-track a little. "The doctor said they'd never seen a more determined patient and he asked me what the cause was. I know, but I didn't tell him. It was you, every day that you never came to see him, it was only more incentive for him to get out and come and see you." Brian is all-too-silent, staring at the floor, so she continues. "But what Justin didn't know, and I didn't tell him was that you _were_ there, every night."

Brian's head snaps up and his eyes meet Jennifer's. He swallows hard, but doesn't say a word.

Jennifer's voice softens and the sickeningly sweet sound of it makes Brian nauseous. "The nurse on duty told me," she explains slowly, no doubt in answer to the confusion on Brian's face. "I didn't know how to break the news to Justin, but then he said he'd seen you, that you were there, in his hospital room..."

“I was," Brian says simply, cutting her off. "So, what, you think cutting me out of his life is the best thing for him?"

“Yes."

Brian rolls his eyes before he focuses Jennifer. "You already tried that once, remember? Didn't work."

Jennifer takes a breath. She looks away, suddenly unable to look the man in the eye. "I know I made you think that he was your responsibility in the beginning—"

“That's an understatement. You practically dropped him on my doorstep."

“—but he's back home now, safe and sound. So, there's no real reason anymore for you to watch over him. So, I would like you to leave, and never see him again."

Brian frowns, the lines in his face marring his handsome features. He swallows thickly before he finally admits, "I care about him."

“It was because of you he was almost killed," Jennifer says, her voice sharp, piercing through Brian like a blade, and once again, he finds himself drowning in the guilt. Jennifer back-tracks, seeing the look of pure anguish on Brian's face. "Forgive me for being so blunt," she says slowly, "but it's true. I've tried to accept him for who he is, to accept your world and that he's part of it. I've even tried to accept you. And, as a result, I nearly lost him, and I don't intend to ever lose him again. So if you care about him... And I believe you—" Her voice cracks, but she pushes past it. "I believe you do. You'll do as I ask, and return my son to me."

Brian is still for a long while, his eyes cast downward as he studies the floor. He can't bring himself to look at Jennifer, to see the pleading look he knows is in her eyes. Without a word, he turns and starts for the front door. He's just about to turn the knob when they both hear a crash.

 _"No!"_ Another crash, and before Jennifer can say anything, Brian bolts up the stairs. There's another crash and Jennifer rushes after Brian, just as her son cries out again. _"No!"_

With her heart hammering in her chest, Jennifer rushes down the hallway. She sees Brian, stopped right in front of the door to Justin's room, a look of horror on his face. He's frozen, glued to the spot as he stares into the room, as he watches Justin destroy anything and everything.

Pushing past him, Jennifer steps into the room, on high alert. "Justin, my God, what are you doing?" Her son, however, doesn't seem to hear her as he rips the drawings off the walls and tears them to shreds. "Stop!" Jennifer tries again, moving forward. Reaching out to him, she tries to touch his shoulder, to calm him, but he shoves her back.

Molly appears out of nowhere, and Jennifer turns to see her standing next to Brian, frozen, much like he is. She's scared shitless, that much is clear, just by the look on her face. "Why is Justin freaking out?" she asks, her voice small.

“Molly, go to your room! Go on!" Jennifer commands. She turns back to Justin, stepping forward once again. She reaches out to him once again, trying to soothe him. "Justin, please—" He shoves her back again, pushing her into the bureau. She cries out, but he doesn't seem to care as he looks at her with fire in his eyes.

“You told him to leave, didn't you?" he accuses her. It's only then that it's made clear that he hasn't seen Brian standing in the doorway just yet. His eyes are locked on Jennifer, agony flashing across his face. "Nothing you do is going to fix this; my life is fucked! Chris Hobbs saw to that." He turns and grabs hold of his easel, tossing it to the floor. "He should have fucking killed me!"

“Justin!"

 _Brian._ Jennifer had nearly forgotten he was there. In that moment, everything stills. Justin stands there, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, his face screwed up in pain, in anguish. He leans forward slowly, pressing his forehead against his closet doors, breathing deeply to fight back the tears.

Stepping forward into the room, Brian makes his way toward Justin. He moves almost robotically, like he's on autopilot. He feels Jennifer's eyes on him, but he doesn't look at her. He's completely focused on the young man in front of him, and it's like the entire world fades away, like everything around them just disappears.

Brian wraps his arms around Justin slowly, holding him close. He doesn't say anything, just holds him, grounds him. Justin is also silent, burying his face in Brian's chest, wrapping his arms tightly around him, breathing heavily. His entire body is shaking and he fights back tears as Brian holds him.

Finally, the levee breaks and Justin collapses against Brian as his sobs wrack his entire body. Brian tucks Justin's head under his chin and just lets the young man cry, knowing very well that there was no fixing it, there was no trying to make it better.

“Justin—"

Justin's entire body tenses at the sound of his mother's voice, just as the tears are starting to dissipate. He wraps his arms around Brian even tighter, afraid she might try to break the two of them apart. Brian looks up at the sound of Jennifer's voice, too, giving Justin's mother an understanding look.

“I've got this," he says simply. "Let me just calm him down and then I'll leave." Predictably, Justin's arms tighten around him again and he shivers. "Okay, okay," Brian says, wrapping an arm around Justin's shoulders. He arches a brow at Jennifer.

Tight-lipped, Jennifer nods her head slowly and backs out of the room, and as she turns into the hall, she reaches to close the door behind her with an audible click. As soon as she's gone, Brian turns his attention to the young man wrapped around him.

“It's okay," he says quietly, trying to calm Justin down, but he only feels the younger man's grip tighten even more.

“Please don't leave," Justin pleads, his voice so small Brian can barely hear him over the younger man's sobs. "Don't go. _Please._ " His fingers twist the back of Brian's shirt, gripping him like he might disappear at any moment, as though he might vanish if he doesn't hold on tight.

Brian shakes his head slowly and he moves one of his hands to feather the hair on the back of Justin's head. "I'm not going anywhere," he says, his voice soft, even as Justin continues to cry.

“You were going to leave," Justin cries. "She told you to leave, and you weren't even going to say anything! You were just going to leave and never come back!" Brian hushes him over and over as he holds him, as he lets him cry it out.

Finally, Justin's sobs begin to fade and he begins to loosen his grip on the back of Brian's shirt. A long silence passes between the two of them before Justin violently pushes away from Brian, wiping the remnants of his tears with his sleeve. Brian stares at him, bewildered, trying to decipher the emotions as they cloud and distort Justin's otherwise innocent features.

“It’s bad enough that I can’t remember anything from that night, and now she’s trying to take you away from me, too,” Justin says, a fresh onslaught of tears threatening to spill over.

“Listen to me, listen to me, listen to me,” Brian says. He reaches out, grasping Justin’s shoulders tightly. “Are you listening to me?” He gets a watery nod as his answer. “I’m not going anywhere, alright?”

Justin sniffles, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. It’s then that he finally looks around the room, _really_ looks. “Oh, shit,” Justin says as he takes in the sight of the knocked-over furniture, the drawings that now litter the floor, torn to shreds. He looks at Brian with shock in his eyes. “I did this?”

Brian nods his head slowly. “Look, don’t dwell on it, alright?”

“But I—"

Brian squeezes his shoulder, stopping him before he can go any further. “Don’t worry about it. Look, why don’t you lie down for a bit? I’m sure you’ll feel better once you get some sleep.”

Justin snorts, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. He sniffles once, twice, but he doesn’t let that ruin the aesthetic as he stares at Brian, challenging him. “You sound like my mother.”

Brian shrugs off the comment with little effort. Hell, he’s been called worse things and from what he’d seen briefly, being compared to Jennifer Taylor is hardly an insult. “Well, sometimes, your mommy’s right,” he says. “And, after your little tantrum, some sleep might do you some good.” He walks over, clearing space for Justin to lie down.

"You’re seriously taking her side?” Justin asks, in total disbelief.

“Please,” Brian says, rolling his eyes as he picks up one of Justin’s pillows, only to toss it back on the bed. “If I’m on _anyone’s_ side, it’s mine. Now would you quit being such a twat and just do what I tell you for once?”

There’s a ghost of a smile on Justin’s lips, and Brian revels in it. It’s a stark contrast to the teary-eyed boy he’d seen before, and he welcomes the change. Still, he raises his eyebrows expectantly as he waits for Justin to make his move.

As he stares at the man across the room, Justin can’t help the look of longing as it finds its way onto his face. His gaze is incredibly soft and Brian can tell that Justin wants to say something, or ask him something. He can practically _hear_ the gears turning in the younger man’s head.

“Yes?” he says, anticipating Justin’s question.

“Will you—” Justin sighs as he takes a step forward toward the older man. Brian waits, already knowing the rest of the question. He arches a brow, not surprised in the slightest as Justin continues, “Will you stay with me?”

“I’m not into cuddling,” Brian dismisses and he scowls, his body shuddering at the mere idea of it.

“I know that,” Justin tells him, his face falling. “I just don’t want to be alone. At least, not yet.”

Brian shakes his head. “Why are you so insistent on pushing almost _all_ of the wrong buttons?” he admonishes.

“Brian…”

Not knowing what else to say, Brian takes a few steps toward Justin. He looks at him for a long while, unable to find his voice. He leans down, pressing their foreheads together.

“Please?” Justin says, his voice so small, Brian can hardly hear him.

Brian sighs, lifting his head to look down at the younger man, seeing the pleading look in his eyes. He knows he should leave, that he should get the hell out of dodge, preferably before he had to face the wrath of Jennifer Taylor again.

Pressing his lips to Justin’s forehead gently, Brian heaves a sigh. “Just until you fall asleep,” he relents, his voice suddenly very quiet, very gentle.

An elated smile alights Justin’s face and Brian has to keep from laughing at the speed with which Justin rounds the side of the bed, climbing in. It’s almost childlike and Brian is stricken once again as he is forced to face the fact of how young Justin actually is. Still, he finds himself following, pulled in by the pleading, hopeful look in Justin’s eyes.

Justin smiles as Brian climbs into bed beside him, and he inches closer, despite the warning look on Brian’s face. When the older man doesn’t move (aside from stretching out, crossing his legs at the ankle) Justin shifts so his head is resting on Brian’s chest.

“Tell me the story,” Justin pleads.

“You _know_ the story,” Brian reminds him, rather abruptly, his voice rough as he recalls, “I saw him in the mirror, walking toward you—”

“Not that one,” Justin interjects just before Brian can go into any more detail. He shakes his head slowly. “Tell me about prom,” he tries again. “Tell me about our dance.”

Brian huffs. “Didn’t Daphne already tell you everything?” he asks. He shifts then, wrapping an arm loosely around Justin’s shoulders, a move that not only shocks Justin, but himself, as well.

“She did,” Justin agrees, “but I want _you_ to tell me.”

“Why me?”

“Because you were _there_ ,” Justin says without giving any sort of pause.

“So was Daphne,” Brian retorts, just as quickly.

Justin heaves out a resounding sigh, and his fingers pick at the fabric of Brian’s shirt, playing with the buttons. “I got it,” he says quickly. “You want to act like it never happened, like you never showed up in the first place.

“Did I say that?” Brian argues.

Justin lifts his shoulder lightly. “No, but I understand if that’s how you feel.”

“Let’s get one thing straight: you don’t know what I think,” he snaps, “ _or_ how I feel.”

Unfazed by the older man’s cutting words, Justin goes on, “No, I don’t.” Still, he can’t help but wonder, “Is it because you regret showing up?”

Brian shakes his head once. “I don’t do regrets.”

“Then why won’t you tell me about it?” Justin asks, his voice laced with confusion. His hand stills on Brian’s chest and he looks up at him, just as Brian breathes a sigh.

“I’d rather not relive the events of that night.”

Hurt, Justin inquires, “Our dance?”

“Everything afterward,” Brian clarifies, his eyes tightly shut as he tries to ward off the nightmarish images, the absolute _hellish_ memory of it all.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“You keep saying that,” Brian retorts, his voice flat. “But you don’t know—”

“It’s _not!_ ” Justin stresses. He lifts his head to look Brian in the eye. “You were never at fault!”

Brian rolls his eyes. _Always the optimist,_ he thinks, and as though he’d developed some sort of superhuman mind-reading abilities, Justin grabs a fistful of Brian’s shirt, looking him dead in the eye.

“I don’t blame you for what happened; I blame that asshole, Chris Hobbs. If anything, I want to thank you for giving me the best— I know I don’t remember it, but I just _know_ that it was the best night of my life.”

Brian’s entire body tenses. “You said that.”

Justin furrows his brow. “Said what? When?”

Brian closes his eyes once again, forcing the words out, “That it was the best night of your life. You said it right before…” He struggles to get the words out, swallowing the lump in throat.

“Oh,” Justin says, casting his eyes downward. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Brian tells him. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Nodding his head, Justin returns to his previous position, with his head on Brian’s chest. “Tell me about it,” he says again, sounding hopeful. When Brian doesn’t answer, he adds, “I want to hear it from you. I just want something good from that night to hold onto. I want to hear your version.” He manages a small chuckle. “Not that I don’t love Daph’s version, but she tends to embellish things.” He starts to fiddle with the buttons on Brian’s shirt again. _Probably just to keep his hands busy,_ Brian figures. “And I know you won’t embellish. Please?”

Brian is quiet for a long while and there’s nothing left in the room but the sound of their breathing. Finally, he inhales deeply, only to adopt a teasing tone, “Shall I start with ‘Once upon a time?’”

Thankfully, it draws out the response he was hoping for—Justin laughs lightly, and just the sound of it fills Brian with a sense of hope. It’s a life raft pulling him to shore, away from the stormy waters. It grounds him, and suddenly, he’s no longer falling, fumbling and reaching out to steady himself.

“I’d appreciate it,” Justin snarks, and the light smile that blooms on his lips fills Brian with warmth. “But you don’t have to. I’ll make an exception.”

Brian snorts. “How generous of you,” he says, replacing his arm around Justin’s shoulders lightly.

“Now you’re just stalling,” Justin accuses.

Brian shakes his head. _Such a twat,_ he thinks, only to realize he’s spoken out loud. He hears Justin’s laugh once again and he feels a light thump on his chest as the younger man swats at him.

“Alright,” he relents, relaxing his body (or at least, he tries to). “Fine, you win.” He breathes deeply before the story begins…

* * *

It’s not long after he’s described the dance in nothing less than great detail that he looks down, only to find Justin asleep, his face the perfect picture of relaxation. It’s nothing like what he’s seen before, all the times he visited him, when Justin was constantly bombarded with hellish visions, when he seemed to be plagued by nightmares practically every time Brian saw him in the hospital. No, it’s like he’s an entirely different person.

Looking away from Justin’s sleeping face, Brian finds himself looking around the room, at the destruction Justin had caused earlier during his tirade. There are broken picture frames, shards of glass littering the floor, along with all of the shredded paper, drawings, sketches that Justin had torn apart as if they were nothing.

Brian’s heart sinks as he takes in the destruction and he suddenly finds it hard to breathe, like there’s some kind of heavy weight on his chest, suffocating him, hindering him from catching his breath.

Sliding out from underneath Justin’s sleeping form, Brian stands, careful not to wake the younger man. He glances around Justin’s bedroom one last time before he finally leaves, making his way down the hall.

As he descends the stairs, he spots Jennifer in the dining room, nursing a glass of red, and, if the bottle on the table is anything to go by, she must be on her third or fourth glass.

“Is he asleep?” she wonders, the sudden sound of her voice nearly startling Brian.

“Uh, yeah,” he nods as he makes his way over to her. He rubs at the back of his neck before letting out a heavy sigh. He drops into the chair across from her, folding his arms on the tabletop. “Yeah, he’s asleep.”

Jennifer purses her lips before taking another sip from her glass. “I finally got Molly to settle down,” she says slowly. “She’s been worried ever since Justin started to freak out. I don’t think she really understands what happened to him. She knows he was hurt, but I don’t think she understands the damage… It took me forever just to calm her down.”

“I know the feeling.”

Jennifer grabs the bottle of wine, holding it out to Brian. “You want a glass?” When Brian shakes his head in the negative, she sets the bottle down. “Water?” she tries.

“Sure,” Brian says, only because he knows damn well that there was no way of getting out of it.

Standing, Jennifer fetches him a glass of water, turning around to set it down in front of him. She wraps her arms around herself as she leans against the counter, hugging herself tightly.

“He hasn’t gotten much sleep ever since we brought him home,” he tells him, and Brian can hear the melancholy in her voice, the confusion, the stress. She shakes her head, biting her lip. “He used to have nightmares when he was little—night _terrors,_ really. It always took Craig and I hours to get him to go back to sleep… But they were nothing like this.” Finally, she looks at him, and even in the low light, Brian can see the tears in her eyes. “I don’t know how to help him,” she confesses, choking back a sob.

Brian’s jaw tightens. “You’re his mother; I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Is that why every time I try, he pushes me away?”

Brian sighs. “Look, I’m not some family therapist. I can’t help you—”

“But you can help Justin,” Jennifer points out, albeit very warily. “ _You_ can help him.”

“And how’s that?”

Jennifer looks away, her lips a thin line. By the time she looks back at him, he simply wants to dig a hole and crawl in.

“I can’t help him,” she says, her voice sounding so broken as she sits down once again. “I’m his _mother_ and I can’t help him. A mother is supposed to look after her son, to take care of him, to love him, protect him—”

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t know about loving mothers,” Brian quips, looking off to the side. By the time he looks back, Jennifer is staring at him, her lips pressed into a thin line. It’s as though she’s fighting the urge to comment, and he’s thankful for her silence.

Brian’s glass of water goes untouched, and he stares at it as though it may drown him. Of course, there’s a part of him that knows, in truth, that drowning would be a far better fate than any he might suffer under the scrutiny of Jennifer Taylor’s piercing gaze.

“You can help him,” she tells him, breaking the silence.

Brian looks at her, meeting her gaze, his brows knitting together. He knows she’s probably right, in more ways than one, actually, but he doesn’t want to admit it. He doesn’t know what would happen if he does. Instead, he adopts a sense of indifference, of aloofness. He builds the walls back up so high and so thick, they’re nearly impenetrable.

“You can help him,” Jennifer repeats and Brian can’t help but think, _Jesus, she sounds like a broken fucking record…_

“Yeah, you said that.”

“You _can!_ ”

“And how’s that?”

“Well, for starters, you can get him to sleep—”

“Yeah, bedtime stories do a hell of a lot,” he snaps.

Jennifer sits back, furrowing her brow in confusion. “You told him—”

“He wanted to know about it,” Brian shrugs his shoulders, “so I told him.”

“Is that wise?”

“How the fuck should know? I’m not his doctor; I’m not his therapist.”

“But you’re someone who can help him.”

“Would you _stop_ saying that already?” Brian nearly shouts. “I mean, it was what, a little over an hour ago that you were telling me to fuck off and never come back? And I’m supposed to believe that, now, you’re singing me all kinds of praises?” He shakes his head as he leans back in his chair, only to shove himself away from the table a second later.

Brian stands abruptly, the glass of water trembling slightly on the tabletop. Jennifer stares at it, watching it as though it might tip over at any second, like it was that one last straw—the one to break the camel’s back. But when she looks up at the man as he begins to pace, she realizes, _It already has…_

“He needs someone to be there for him,” she reasons.

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one. You’re his mother! You’ll figure something out,” he says, turning to leave.

“But he wants _you,_ ” she argues, and that’s all it takes for Brian to stop in his tracks. He sighs and his shoulders tense, and she somehow knows his eyes are closed. “You’re the one he trusts. You’re the only person he’s let near him since he was… All I’m saying is that he needs you, and, from what I can tell, you need him, too.”

Brian is completely silent, and he can just make out the sound of the chair legs scraping across the floor as Jennifer stands. He doesn’t know where she moves to, but he soon finds himself flinching at the sound of her voice:

“Help him.”

Brian turns, staring at Jennifer’s face. “And how the fuck do you want me to do that?”

“Touch him, help him _be_ touched. Be _close_ to him.”

“Uh, huh.” Arching a brow, Brian can’t help but ask, “You want me to fuck him?”

Her face flushes, but to his great surprise, Jennifer shrugs her shoulders. “If that’s what it takes.”

Brian rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what he needs—a good roll in the hay.”

Jennifer shakes her head. “I may not like it, but if I’m ever to see my son resemble who he once was, I don’t have a choice.”

“And if that doesn’t work?” he challenges. He’s surprised when he sees Jennifer shrug her shoulders.

“I don’t know.”

“So, you’re just putting this all out there on blind faith?” Brian scoffs. “Fuck that.”

“But you’ll help him. If you really care about him, you will,” Jennifer says, her voice hopeful. “Won’t you?”

Steeling himself, Brian turns back, heading toward the door. He can hear Jennifer’s steps behind him, but he doesn’t look back. It’s only when he has his hand on the doorknob that he hears her call out to him, but he doesn’t answer. Hell, he doesn’t even register what she says, for he’s already out the door, pulling it shut behind him.

Brian is unsure how long he stands there on the sidewalk, just as he’s unsure of how long he sits silently in his jeep before he finally pulls away from the curb, but he can’t help but hear Jennifer Taylor’s voice echoing in his head. He hates how much of this has been put in his hands because he knows it’s his fault, that he’s the one to blame, and it’s that realization that pains him more than anything, even more so when he realizes she’s right. _Fuck,_ is she right…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any feedback is welcome and encouraged.


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